


The Pole Cat's Prize

by DarthFucamus



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Biting, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Manipulation, Masklophilia, Masks, Murder, Pole Cat (Fury Road), Rough Sex, Stabbing, Teeth, the mask comes off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: Anonymous said:"M/F dub-con involving a female character and one of those masked polecats from Mad Max Fury Road?"-----A pole cat spies a Buzzard car skimming the edges of Gas Town turf. Their cargo? A wild woman who's more trouble than she's worth to anyone with a lick of sense. In the post apocalyptic Badlands, however, one must find their fun wherever, and however, it comes...-----





	The Pole Cat's Prize

**Author's Note:**

> I was happy to give this a try. I may do some more proofreading later, apologies for any errors :)

  
  
Pogo spotted the dust trail from atop his perch. It was during his snack break, but if anything could distract him from smoked lizard-on-a-stick, it was the promise of a good tussle. Slaytan needed a few more marks on her roof; it’d been awhile since they’d carved the last one.  
  
He whistled to his crew 20 feet below; Snipe, dozing in the modified El Camino’s cab barely stirred, but Barel had been absently scratching at the rust spots on the metronome pole’s engine block counterweight, and was ready.  
  
“Whaddya see?” Barel’s deep timbre boomed from below. Snipe roused and his burlap sack mask poked out of the driver side window.  
  
Pogo tucked the lizard stick into one of his tin mask’s side straps like a flag and brought his spyglass to his eye. Extending it fully, he took measure of the source of the dust trail. It was a spiked Buzzard ratrod without a roof, and there were three people inside.  
  
Two masked Buzzards and… a female. Pogo made a choked noise. Below, Barel jarred the base of the pole with a meaty fist.  
  
“You gone stupid, dingus? What is it?”  
  
The woman was small, but even from here he could see how fiercely she fought against the Buzzard in the back of the car.  
  
“Two shitbirds. And they’ve got a prize,” he called down. Snipe craned farther out the window, the scrawny driver was searching the horizon with a pair of binoculars, but Pogo was at the right angle to see where they were headed: southeast of Gas Town territory, toward the Buried City.  
  
“We gotta go,” Pogo said. He gave the hand signal to indicate the best trajectory to Snipe, and within seconds, Slaytan roared into motion, kicking up dust and gravel. Snipe banged a hand on the roof and Barel howled.  
  
\----  
  
Mogga snarled, kicking at the smelly rag-wrapped bastard trying to tie her wrists together. His mistake was thinking she needed her hands to fight, and the minute one of his fingerless-gloved hands came close enough, she snapped forward and sank her incisors into his small finger. The front top teeth, filed into points, perforated dirty skin until blood welled. The Buzzard howled and cursed in his gibberish language, trying to push her off as she bit down nearly to bone, until her jaw ached. A hard fist to her cheek broke contact and sent her sprawling back on the rear seat. Her head spun.  
  
The driver said something, gesturing angrily at his companion, who shrilled a complaint, showing him the ruined digit, seeping coppery blood.  
  
Mog didn’t speak their babble but she understood all too well the context: she was not to be harmed. Yet. A worse fate awaited her back at the hellish base half-buried under the sands. A certain gang leader would be very happy to see her again.  
  
She couldn’t let them. She would die first, and it was with that desperation that she threw herself at the bleeding Buzzard with a feral scream, clawing at the seam of skin between his ratty mask and his neck.  
  
The driver said something over the whine of the engine, his voice tense, and the bleeding Buzzard stopped struggling with her, clamping a fist around her neck, to look. She couldn’t see past the sides of the car; everything beyond was a bright, fiery blur of washed-out blue sky against blinding baked earth, and with the tightening hand around her throat came stars. But she detected the apprehension in their voices; it gave her a good dose of spiteful pleasure. They were scared, which meant they were preoccupied. Moving as little as possible to keep from getting choked out, she used the chance to ease the knife out of the Buzzard’s belt sheath without alerting him.  
  
The sound of a distant second engine confirmed what she had suspected: the Buzzards had strayed into Warlord territory to retrieve her and now they were going to die for it. Either by her hand or the pursuers that had them so shaken.  
  
She tucked the knife into her boot.  
  
\----  
  
Pogo’s veins flooded with ignited guzzo. Wind whistled by his head, almost musical as it skated past the pole. Barel and Snipe communicated in short shouts but the specific words of it were lost in the distance between Pogo and the car beneath.  
  
He didn’t need the spyglass to see the ratrod’s passengers anymore, they were intercepting rapidly, but he used it anyway to get a better look at the cargo.  
  
She was small, tanned, and crowned with a jaw-length tangle of sandy blonde hair. Blood coated her snarling mouth as she thrashed at the Buzzard in the backseat who was trying his best to both keep her off of him and ready a crossbow.  
  
She had fight in her. A tight, shaky feeling rooted in his guts. It felt like that first drop of the metronome, or rappelling down the oil towers on a line: falling with a brief moment of unsureness if he’d stop before slamming into mush on against the packed earth.  
  
Barel hollered, a wordless noise from below, and Pogo readied himself. Seconds later, Barel unlatched the base of the pole and the feel of the plummet was real this time.  
  
Barel used his dense body to push the metronome into motion, swinging on the massive engine block counterweight. As the pole tipped backward away from the ratrod to gather momentum, the two cars’ paths began to join. On the upswing he’d be within range.  
  
Pogo watched the woman in the back, clawing at the hand gripping her throat, an urgent ball of tension in his chest as he leaned his weight into the tilt, fearing that the Buzzard would snap her neck before he could get to her.  
  
He was so concerned with her he didn’t know the crossbow had fired until a bolt shot by his ear.   
  
"Eyes-on, dickhead!” Pogo shouted.  
  
Slaytan swerved slightly as Snipe got his shit together. The pop of gunfire from the cab meant the driver was finally giving him cover.  
  
Pogo, a helpless weight on a mast, soared upright and began falling forward as the ratrod swerved to avoid the flying bullets. Snipe adjusted Slaytan’s trajectory to compensate and keep them parallel. Pogo’s crew could be gummy at times, but they’d proved themselves more than once.   
  
The Buzzard with the crossbow was trying his best to reload one-armed, but the girl wasn’t giving him a moment’s rest. So distracted, he didn’t see Pogo’s catchpole noose until the cord was around his neck.  
  
For just a second, Pogo was close enough to lock eyes with the feral female.  
  
His gut roiled to see the violence in her pale eyes. Then he began tipping upright again, dragging the fat Buzzard right out of his fucking seat. Too heavy to carry, even with Barel’s weight on the base, Pogo released the catchpole to let him fall over the side of the ratrod and hit dirt.  
  
He fell behind the racing parallel cars and Pogo began the backwards ascent, his eyes on the prize.  
  
He just needed to get her before the driver panicked and did something stupid, killing them both. But the woman wasn’t waiting for rescue.  
  
Pogo whistled a report to Barel who threw his body hard into bringing the metronome back from the far side as hard as possible.  
  
She’d hurled herself forward, looked like she was attacking the driver, now. What the fuck was she doing?  
  
The woman’s slight frame was locked around the driver and as Snipe steered to keep Slaytan’s route steady with the ratrod, Pogo got ready. He pull out a second fastener strap, slid the catchpole back into the shaft of the pivoting mast, dusted his gloved hands in his chalk pouch, and got ready, all while soaring in an arc at the top of the pole.  
  
A flash of sunlight on metal in her hand gave him a brief spike of shock before it disappeared, sinking into the Buzzard driver’s front. The fem had a fucking knife. He plummeted forward, prepared for anything…  
  
\----  
  
Mogga sank the blade through cloth and skin and muscle until it grated bone, then twisted. She may have lost her mind for a moment.  
  
Still gripping the driver with a steel trap arm, she stuck him again and again with the knife, ignoring his gibberish screams as blood sprayed hot over her face. She licked the salty red from her mouth, before spitting it into the driver’s eyes until he couldn’t see through his goggles.  
  
He sagged forward, and the car began to careen wildly. Jamming the bloody knife back into her boot, she strained forward past him to seize the wheel, but his limp body was dead weight.  
  
She couldn’t see where they were going, damn her eyes, but the ground became rougher, jostling her and the dead body, dangerously uneven. She could hear the pole car keeping pace. It occurred to her belatedly that the pole cat might be coming back.  
  
She turned to look in time to see long, bare arms reaching for her, a dented gray metal mask with round glass lenses.    
  
\----  
  
“C’mon, girly,” Pogo muttered, expecting the now-hidden knife to plunge into him when he made contact. Instead, the small body leapt into his embrace.  
  
The ratrod, with its now-dead driver, hit a rocky dune and flipped as Pogo and the prize soared upright atop the pole.  
  
Slaytan veered off. They were close enough to the resulting explosion that he felt the heat on his bare forearms. He secured her with a strap around her waist, clipping her to him around her waist, the pole hit the vertical and stayed put. Barel had anchored it, and now Snipe was taking them back Northeast, back to the borders of the Gas Town patch.  
  
Her body shuddered with the force of her breaths. He stole a look, now that he had her. Wide, washed-out blue eyes met his over ruddy, sunburned cheeks dusted with freckles. Nostrils flared on her round, button nose, too. Blood was smeared and drying on her lower face and neck, but he couldn’t see any visible injury.  
  
“I’ve gotcha,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why he was reassuring her. She clutched him for dear life, and rested her head on his shoulder.  
  
Pogo fought a losing battle with his flipping stomach and held her tight until he could feel her heart pounding against his chest.  
  
  
  
\--------  
  
“Garbage!” Barel said, lifting the gas mask to spit on the ground in the girl’s direction. Pogo threw a pebble to the side in irritation.  
  
“She’s got all ‘er parts. More’n you can say, six-toes,” Snipe said to Barel, trying to stand taller.  
  
The three of them were standing a half dozen strides from where the girl sat beside the car, shaded from the sun.  
  
“What the Hel’s wrong with your eyes? Ugly Buzzard hen’s not worth the teeth in ‘er head.”  
  
Pogo avoided looking at her while her value was loudly debated by his crew, but when he did steal a sideways glance, her sunburned face was unreadable. It didn’t help that it was hard to tell where she was focusing; there was something wrong with her peepers, which were an eerie washed-out blue.  
  
And he knew what Barel was saying. Somehow Pogo had missed all the mottled swathes of scarring like melted wax on her arm and the side of her neck until Barel pointed them out. But the weird spiral word burgers marked on her bare shoulders made Pogo curious.  
  
“She ain’t so bad,” said Snipe.  
  
To that, the girl bared her teeth, showing that the top front ones had been filed into savage points, and Snipe flinched and made a noise of revulsion.  
  
“I was bored,” said Pogo, smiling behind his mask with his eyes lingering on her.  
  
It was true enough. But he wasn’t as eager to volunteer the fact that ever since he’d locked eyes with her that first time, he couldn’t stop his guts from twisting every time he looked at or came near her. A pull came from deeper when he thought of the heartbeat like a bird’s crushed against him.  
  
“Was better than doin’ nothing,” he said with a shrug. Barel grumbled a reluctant agreement.  
  
“What do we do with ‘er?” Snipe asked.  
  
\----  
  
Mogga listened to everything they said. The only reason she hadn’t run off was because she was tired. She was thirsty too, but just chewed on her peeling lips to distract herself.  
  
The big one wanted to take her to someone called the People Eater, no doubt their warlord. She’d been around enough eaters of manmeat, she didn’t intend to fall prey to another one after her hard fought freedom.  
  
It was getting late, too. Her eyes worked even worse at night, and it made her antsy. She didn’t feel like waiting for them to pull their heads out of their arseholes, so Mogga helped herself into the back of their cab. There was a narrow space behind the driver’s seat piled with junk, and she started digging around in it for something that might be water.  
  
“Hey! Get outta there!” someone shouted.  
  
Mogga ignored the order, her hands finding a big jug with liquid sloshing around inside. Before she could work out the cork, massive arms clamped around her waist and tugged her backward. Kicking and growling, she fought against him, unwilling to part with her discovery.  
  
“She’s just thirsty,” the pole cat said.  
  
Mogga clawed at the gas mask and goggles covering his face, and landed a boot toe in his groin. With a guttural ‘oof,’ he dropped her in a heap on the hot ground.  
  
“Fine. You want a pet? She’s your problem, now, mate,” the big man said, a bit winded. Mogga thought about stabbing him, instead she went for the jug.  
  
A hand on her shoulder stopped her and she let loose a kneejerk snarl before the lanky pole cat let her go with hands raised in surrender.  
  
“You don’t want that, s’not aqua cola. Here,” he said, leaning in and pulling out a leather corked bag from under the driver’s seat. She eyed the back of his head, suspicion making her anxious. But she took the pouch all the same and huddled next to the rear tyre to drink.  
  
\----  
  
Barel argued, Snipe whined, but Pogo was the senior war boy. He didn’t pull rank often, but ultimately he called the shots.  
  
After all, Slaytan was his baby, and he’d deal with the consequences should his plans go awry. He might come to regret it but he couldn’t help it; the skags at the Slick in Gas Town weren’t to his taste, and trips to the Citadel were too far between for him to make sweet to any of the fems working for Joe.  
  
To her credit, the fem seemed to understand that he was trying to help her and sat quiet in the bed of the pole car while Snipe drove them back to switch out with the nightwatch. He wondered if that understanding extended to what he was hoping to get for it.  
  
Barel glared at her from his perch on the roof next to the fresh kill mark he’d scratched into it, but said nothing as she drained the water skin.  
  
By the time Pogo left Snipe and Barel at the bridge over the Oil Bog to cross on foot, the sun was going down. She didn’t wait to be asked or told to get into the car beside him, she just did, threading her body through the open window like a snake as if she belonged there. She stared out the side window as Pogo drove them off.  
  
“There’s a place to the West. It’s safe there. No one’ll bug us…” he said, giving her a side glance. If she heard him she didn’t indicate.  
  
\----  
  
Mogga had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth, but the reddish smear in the sky ahead looked like a sunset, so they were at least going the way he’d said. It wouldn’t matter. The second he followed through with those looks he kept stealing, she’d gut him. First she’d let him get her as far from the acrid stench of Gas Town as possible.  
  
She wasn’t stupid. She was far better off with one of them than a whole town of them. And this one was extra thick because he seemed to have taken a shine to her for some reason. She didn’t understand why, she was uglier than a plucked crow and twice as mean.  
  
“You hungry?” he asked.  
  
Mog stared at him, then was immediately annoyed with herself for doing that much. She hadn’t said a word yet, but she wasn’t always sure what her face was saying, and the truth was she was starving. She looked out the side window at the incomprehensible landscape and heard him chuckle smugly.  
  
Maybe she’d wait until eating before gutting him.  
  
\----  
  
Pogo stopped outside the near-enclosed circle of rocky outcroppings Southwest of Gas Town, tall enough to hide the pole. It wasn’t so far, there was a petrol pump churning away near enough to provide a steady, creaking background noise, and a flare would have backup at their location in minutes. Not that he needed it.  
  
It was safe and secluded, though, and as such, a favorite hideaway for war boys looking to have some privacy for whatever reason. The hollow patch of dirt in the enclosed place was littered with bottles and other garbage, and Pogo cleared a spot with his prize staring distantly from the passenger seat.  
  
The way she “watched” him set up, turning her ears toward him more than her eyes, sealed his suspicion that she was some kinda blind, though she did a good job of hiding it. If it’d been anyone else he would’ve dismissed her as crow food, but for some reason it made him want to keep a watch over her, make sure she was safe.  
  
He didn’t make her get out of the car, but after he made a fire in the metal barrel and started hunting lizards, she came out of her own volition. It was chilly now that the sun was gone down, and she sat herself in front of the fire, the visible parts of her scarred and flickering in the firelight while he stabbed a stick through the catches.  
  
He sat opposite her, holding the lizards over the fire, stealing glances at her and thinking maybe he could keep her to himself. Put some thick coveralls on her, a mask, and she could pass as a war boy easy.  
  
Pogo imagined what it’d be like to have his own girl waiting for him after scout runs and working the rigs in Gas Town, someone with the right parts he could tumble with. And maybe go to sleep next to.  
  
He looked at the bony bird sitting on the ground, narrow shoulders hunched and covered in black marks like the stuff People Eater scribbled into his word burgers, and his imagination was stumped. She was nothing like Star, who’d been as shine as they come on the outside, but something told him this one was smarter than she let on.  
  
He gave her the sticks with the two lizards on it and she snatched it from him and hunched there eating huge mouthfuls at a time. By the looks of her, she’d missed a couple meals. Pogo immediately went looking for more, ignoring his own empty stomach.  
  
\----  
  
Mogga ate, watching when she could see him, listening when she couldn’t, waiting for the perfect moment to escape. She figured that there was only a couple reasons he’d take her to a place like this, but none of them included being fed and, while a two-tailed snake sizzled over the fire barrel, given water.  
  
She guzzled it without reserve or a thought to him and he let her without comment, holding that big earthenware jug she’d found in the car earlier. She wondered if he meant to drink it or if he was just going to sit there and gawk. He’d have to unmask, first, and she considered that might be the source of his hesitation.  
  
Faces weren’t always so useful to her when she could barely see past her own arm, but it made her wary. It meant he was hiding something. All of them were hiding something, trying to cover up their skin and look like something worse than human.  
  
“What the others were sayin’ earlier,” the pole cat started, glass eye lenses flashing in the firelight as he looked down, “about you bein’ ugly… I’m with my crew on most things but not that.”  
  
She scoffed, unable to stop herself.  
  
“Don’t much care what you think,” Mogga said, focusing on her fingers, sucking the charred lizard scales off.  
  
\----  
  
Pogo was startled into silence when he heard her husky, cracked-earth voice. As a pole cat, his sense of balance was integral to his livelihood, but he found himself knocked askew. His gut fluttered. He watched her clean her fingers, wondering if she could even tell he was looking.  
  


“They call me Po-“

“I know,” she interrupted. “All you war boys have the dumbest fucking names. Pogo. What’s that even mean?”

“What do they call you?” Pogo asked, trying to keep up. She hesitated, sniffed, scratched her nose. 

“Mogga.”

Pogo uttered a single laugh, and after a glare from beneath her intense, pale brows, he saw her demeanor crack a little. 

“Ah, whaddoyou even know? You’re all the same,,” she said, waving dismissively.

“I’m the reason you’re alive right now,” he said easily, leaning forward to rotate the snake. A pair of faded blues peered up at him as she cleaned between her filed teeth with the pointed end of the skewer.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
The question was quick and knocked him off kilter again. Whether she could literally see him or not didn’t matter when she could get under his skin like a mite.  
  
“Saved ya from those Buzzards,” he offered, sitting back. His dry tongue craved the liquid sloshing in the jug on his lap, but he put it off a little longer. She made another derisive noise, fearless.  
  
“Didn’t need saving,” she said, and his eyes immediately moved over her, searching for where she’d hidden that dagger he’d seen earlier. She still had flakes of Buzzard blood on her front, but it came along with the bruises on her neck and the side of her face from rough handling. She’d gotten her kicks but she’d paid for it.  
  
“I’m sure you believe that,” Pogo said, watching her for a reaction. “Anyone’s got eyes can see you’ve made it through a few scrapes… so you’re smart or just real lucky. Either way, if it weren’t for me’n my crew, you’d be birdfood.”  
  
He didn’t want to provoke her, he was actually enjoying talking to her a little bit. After her feral behavior earlier, it was a welcome change. Barel would have said something like ‘smart goods is dangerous goods,’ but Pogo was alone, now. The others wouldn’t get in the way.  
  
“I survived them once, could do it again,” she said, holding the stick between her teeth so it jutted straight out and crossing her arms over her chest. Pogo’s eyes immediately went to her numerous marks and grunted.  
  
“Maybe. But not with all your parts.”  
  
She turned away, mute again, and he caught sight of the notch cut into the shell of her ear. He kept his questions to himself.  
  
The snake was done. He pulled it off the top of the barrel, salivating over the smell of cooked meat. He took a good bite out of it, sucking the strands of meat from thin bones, before scooting closer to her on the ground and offering it to her.  
  
She accepted it with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Whaddyou want? I ain’t nice, ain’t even nice to look at. Yer friends’re right, I’m worthless goods.”  
  
Pogo shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest, tapping his bare biceps.  
  
“Thought I’d share a drink with ya. Gab a bit. I ain’t so bad once you get to know me.”  
  
Mogga snorted, a wheezy, nasally noise.  
  
“Can’t say the same for maself,” she said, tearing crispy skin from meat. “No amount of talkin’ll make me any prettier.”  
  
Pogo shrugged, watching her eat.  
  
“Pretty’s not worth much to me. I ain’t much to look at, neither,” he said, peeling off his gloves and prying the cork off the big jug on his lap. He tapped the metal cheek of his mask. “That’s what this’s for.”  
  
\----  
  
Mogga watched him unbuckle his mask, leaning closer to see better and not caring. When he pulled the tin armor off, a pair of sleepy blue eyes peered from under a black smudge of pigment on his forehead. She’d seen the markings before on other war boys, but was surprised that he bothered to apply it when he hid his face.  
  
The lower part of his face was covered in a tied rag serving as a dust mask, but there was a peek of discolored scarring creeping up his left cheek. There was probably more underneath the cloth and she wondered how fucked up he really was. All she could see was the contours of a nose, a chin, and what might have been a mouth.  
  
Without taking off his dust mask, he brought the mouth of the jug under the bandanna and took a drink. She licked the grease off her peeling lips, wanting a taste of whatever was inside that made him gasp and wince.  
  
Her desire must’ve been obvious because he held the jug toward her.  
  
“Careful, it’s poison,” he said, eyes crinkling with humor but unblinking. Steady.  
  
“Trade you,” she said, offering the ragged remains of the headless snake, staring back just as unflinching. It was an absurd trade, but he accepted all the same, letting her take the jug, which was heavy with whatever liquid was inside. He picked pieces of meat off the snake and slipped them under his mask while she sniffed the bottle.  
  
Her nose curled at the stink of the booze. Poison, indeed. Pogo chewed open-mouthed by the sound of it as Mogga took a swig. The first swallow burned down her throat like tingling fire and she hissed as it winded its way down to her belly. Behind it trailed a wake of numbness.  
  
She wanted more of the way it seemed to soften things around the edges. All the same, she set the jug back on the ground with a thunk as her mind worked. Too much of this and it’d make it hard to think at all.  
  
“Not bad,” she said, regarding him closely.  
  
“Sometimes we clean tools with it,” he said, dragging it back toward himself by the handle and chugging.  
  
From this angle she saw beneath the rag, but it was all shadow. He took another swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing on his long throat, dribbling some down his chin and staining his dust mask. She pulled it back toward herself.    
  
She took a hollow chug, miming the effects, and he was none the wiser that there was just as much in the jug after her sip as before. Her lips tingled.  
  
This continued in heavy silence while crickets chirped in some unseen bush and desolate wind whispered over the Badlands outside the influence of the glowing fire barrel.  
  
For every “drink” she took, Pogo matched her, except he didn’t fake it, or spit it out like she did when she could get away with it.  
  
This was going to be easier than she thought.  
  
\----  
  
Pogo scooted toward her the next time he took his turn, thinking himself sly. Mogga almost felt bad for him. Almost.  
  
There were no witnesses, and he was rapidly making himself an unreliable observer.  
  
She let him put his hand on her leg and lean in close, but when his face got near hers, as though he meant to tell her a secret, she made him drink again instead of whatever he’d planned. He’d already had enough to make him sway like a flag on a mast in high wind, but the more he drank, the less pain there’d be.  
  
She didn’t feel like being crueler than necessary, but she strung him along with jagged smiles and feigned-drunken flirtations until his sleepy eyes had trouble focusing. Mimicking his behavior, she reclined on the dirt. With the jug half-empty beside him, he crawled toward her, kneeling, and then pulled his vest off over his head.  
  
She bit her lip, grabbing him by the hand, and guided him to hover over her on hands and knees. She was close enough to his naked torso to see the marks on his sinewy chest. There was not an ounce of fat on him. A life of physical strain, battle-hardened and scarred, left his upper body a landscape of marks both deliberate and otherwise.  
  
The largest feature was a design in the center of his upper chest. She thought was a hammer being held at an angle. But then she recognized the shape of it with its haft on a pivot point, and hammer head shaped like a half-circle.  
  
It was a petrol pump. The pumpjack had been carefully reproduced in fleshy, knotty relief on the pole cat’s living flesh. She heard one of the machines now, a constant, regular throb like the heartbeats of a giant.  
  
Without thinking, she touched his chest and felt his heart beating beneath it, a steady churn like the nearby petrol pump. With her other hand, she felt for the knife handle in her boot.  
  
“You shoul’ stick withme,” Pogo said from above, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to speak. “I’ll treatcha real nice, I swear on V8. I kin make ya happy.”  
  
She laughed and eased the knife out, still crusty with Buzzard blood. It might almost be a mercy to kill him, the way he was talking. If she didn’t, someone else would.  
  
“That right?” she asked, spreading her bent legs open, inviting him to nestle himself between. This way she could bring the knife around his back. He wouldn't even see it coming.  
  
“I kin try,” he said, drawing a hand down her front, brushing it over her breasts through the ratty fabric of her shirt, and going lower.  
  
Her stomach trembled for some reason as she let him, just to see what he’d do. Her hand holding the knife rested against his spine where she felt more scarring, what felt like a latticework that followed the line of his backbone.  
  
One good stick would do it, between the steadily contracting and swelling rib bones.  
  
His fingers found her crotch, and with deliberate intent, he began to tickle and stroke.  
  
Mogga’s hips tilted of their own volition, pressing against his fingers.  
  
Couldn’t hurt to get a little thrill out of this first. Would make the bloodletting all the sweeter when it came. What surprised her was how he seemed to know where to go, what to touch down there.  
  
He leaned close, glassy eyes shining in the firelight before shutting, and he began to kiss her face through the dust mask. Mogga lied there, confused as to why she was letting him. She could see the knife in her hand, poised to plant itself in his back, but was more focused on the way he kneaded her cunt through her trousers. A dull spark made her breath catch.  
  
He knew what he was doing.  
  
“You know your way around,” she said, finding her voice a little rougher than usual. Pogo chuckled against her face. She could smell the poison on his breath as it leaked through the fabric of his mask.  
  
“Hadda girl once.” The pole cat bit her through the fabric on her neck and her hand holding the knife started to quake.  
  
“What happened?” she asked, not that she really cared. He grinded a knuckle between her legs, and his hips moved softly as he did, bare scarred chest heaving, skin looking red hot in the barrel’s firelight.  
  
“Wastersmeg shot me n’ left me fer dead... stole her,” he answered, the hand now fumbling for her trouser fly.  
  
When Pogo’s hand came into contact with Mog’s bare stomach, she was shocked by how soft his skin was. Surprised enough to let him slide the long, tendinous digits between skin and fabric.   
  
“How d’you know she didn’t just up and leave you?” she asked. He was making his way there, but she gasped in surprise all the same when he found her soft fuzz and the hidden moistness between her cunt lips. He groaned into her ear, a deep guttural sound that made her toes curl in her boots.  
  
“Our pups,” he said, breathless as his fingers pushed along the soft slit of flesh, so much more intense skin-to-skin. “Star wouldn’t leave’em too.”  
  
That information snapped her out of her addled haze.  
  
“Pups?” she pulled back and looked him in the eye. He grunted.  
  
“Had two by ‘er,” he said, pulling his hand out of her pants to take a long sniff, slip it under the bandana, and apply a glob of spit. “Healthy boys. Now trainin t’be war pups at th’Citadel.”  
  
His fingers glistened when they re-emerged, and left a moist trail when he plunged them into her trousers. Slippery with spit, he kneaded and stroked her cunt, half-lidded eyes smoldering. Mogga groaned as her blood rushed to the surface and velvety warmth grew under his touch. Her legs opened wider.  
  
“I kin giveya strong pups, if y’want,” he said, pushing a fingertip into her hole, teasing the opening. “I breed warriors.”  
  
Mogga almost laughed, but it came out as a soft moan instead.  
  
“And put more idiots like you in the world?” she said, recovering. Her cheeks flushed beneath her sunburn as he returned to rubbing her clit, fingertips slipping over the sensitive nub.  
  
“Whateverya want,” Pogo said, bending down again, his shoulder working his whole arm to please her. Mogga swallowed her gathering spit. She adjusted the grip on the knife. I want you to die, she thought to herself.  
  
“I want to see your face,” she said, catching her breath. The man paused and swallowed.  
  
“Y’ain’t sloshed enough for’it,” he said.  
  
“You said anything,” Mogga said, not knowing why she kept going with this.  
  
Pogo didn’t make a move to pull the mask down. But when she reached up to touch his face, he didn’t stop her. She pinched the fabric between her fingers, shifting her hips beneath his still hand, and tugged it past his chin.  
  
Half his lower face was normal. The other half stretched and pulled by knotty scar tissue into a permanent, lipless grimace. Naked teeth glinted in the firelight and a trail of mottled, discolored scarring spread from his mouth to his jaw and cheek. The bone beneath was warped and misshapen. It certainly looked like he’d taken a gunshot to the face, but it’d been a lucky miss pf his brainpan. A mostly glancing blow.  
  
His tongue moved behind his teeth as he swallowed. The rest of him looked fine. He might’ve been handsome once; she could certainly imagine him having a girl. She thought she liked him better like this, though. A little damaged.  
  
Her stomach twisted into a knot around the single swallow of poison and the lizard meat.  
  
“Not so bad. Seen worse, ” she said. “Why’d you cover it up?”  
  
He grinned, and it looked monstrous on his face.  
  
“Bugs get in my grill when I’m up there,” he said, pointing to the sky, buffeting her face with liquor breath, licking his exposed teeth with a long pink tongue.  
  
She couldn’t help but laugh, and at her lack of disgust, his hand started moving again, stroking between her legs. But the clothes were getting in the way. She slid the knife back into her boot, giving up on the plan to murder him for now, and undid her pants. He tried to help her out of them, but the buttons seemed to confound him more than her soft parts did. Kicking the trousers aside, she guided him to keep touching her.  
  
Mogga rocked her hips beneath him, clutching the bare face against her cheek, feeling his tongue and lips move over her skin, teeth bared in a permanent snarl, scraping, lapping, kissing. She stopped trying to kill him and clawed her nails into his back, biting him back, harder.  
  
Any pain she dealt him he took with a growl and more enthusiasm. Half-circle bite marks began to fill in the empty spots on his neck and shoulders.  
  
He rocked her hips, biting, pulling his hair, and when he plunged his fingers into her again, she pushed him over on his side, rolling with him until his back hit the ground and she sat perched atop him. She rocked her hips, feeling his bulge with her hands while he fucked her with his fingers.  
  
She pushed hard against the fingers inside of her until they hit a spot like molten lava and she groaned, fisting his messy hair in her hands. She met his thirsty lips with her tongue and scraping his cheek with her pointed teeth.  
  
She bit him as he pulled a climax out of her, sinking her teeth into the side of his neck until she tasted blood. Racked with heat waves, she melted, panting, while he scrambled to get himself out of his trousers. She wanted nothing more at that moment.  
  
She lifted her hips while he held himself up for her, eyes on the space between their hips, and she sank down on top of his hot hard cock. She was still warm from the climax, and the sensation of his taut skin piercing her quivering flesh send her spine into shuddering shockwaves.  
  
He bottomed out with a throaty grunt, squeezing her bare thighs, head lolling back until her grip ripped loose a couple of strands.  
  
He filled her, pulled her tight as a drum around him, but his skin slipped easily against hers. The tightness it brewed in her belly made her frantic.  
  
“I could kill you,” she said, licking the place she’d bitten, tonguing the raw perforations as she rode him. “Still might.”  
  
“I’d meet th’gates witha smile on m’face,” he slurred, bucking and slamming his cock hard into her, making her suck in a breath as the pain billowed into sweet pleasure.  
  
“Ya fucking idiot,” she said with a whimper as he began moving rhythmically beneath her. He gasped, drooling from the ruined side of his mouth.  
  
\----  
  
Pogo sank into her over and over in a blur of grunts and moans and skin slapping skin, they fucked under the dark sky, blazing hot in firelight and gritty with sweaty soil. Mogga tumbled and he moved with her, keeping them joined, covering their naked asses with soil and tiny rocks, crushing her beneath him as he fucked down into her. Every time she sank her pointed teeth into his skin it ignited the fire in his chest and tightened the pull of muscle, revving him up to frenzy.  
  
His head swam, and though he wasn’t too far gone to know she’d had a knife, he also knew she’d put it away. Every piercing of his hot cock into her soft wet insides squeezed his balls a little tighter and the frantic need injected his muscles with nitro.  
  
He pumped into her, piston churning until the feral girl growled and clawed his back, her wet muscles clenching around him, and he kept pumping her through the coming until tears glistened at the corners of her pinched eyes. She held him tight, as tight as she had when he’d pulled her from the ratrod, heart hammering behind her breasts, which he palmed, bending his back to suckle at the rose-brown buds of a nipple while pinching the other.  
  
He got a taste of Valhalla when the pressure burst, and with a tight pull of his balls, he combusted. She clutched him close as he spilled inside of her. She hadn’t said she wanted his pups, but she didn’t stop him, neither.  
  
Reeling, he collapsed on top of her, panting.  
  
He rolled to the side, worried about smashing her into the dirt beneath his weight. When he pulled out, he trailed slick seed onto the parched earth beneath them.  
  
He was having trouble keeping his eyes open as he lay next to her. A small body slid up next to him and nestled against him. He gave a brief thought to her knife before uttering a contented sigh and letting his heavy eyelids slide shut for just a moment.  
  
  
  
\--------  
  
Pogo’s brain was too big for his skull. His world was queasy fire, his cheeks felt hot, and everything hurt.  
  
It took him awhile to realize he was laying on his side with the way the world tilted beneath him.  
  
He’d hit the poison a little too hard, maybe. But flashes of images, the girl’s body atop his, undulating, teeth bared in a manic grin as she rode him, or clawing his back as he rammed into her came in between the white hot searing waves of ache and he couldn’t regret any of it.  
  
The fem , he thought with enough panic to wedge open his crusty eyes. Blinding light, morning sun reflecting off baked soil, was like daggers to his eyeballs.  
  
His tongue was swollen sandpaper, tasting of rancid lizard, booze, and swallowed sick. When the pain subsided to a dull ache, he tried again to move. Crows called nearby.  
  
He rasped an indistinct curse to them against the ground. Slowly, he eased himself up. If he was feeling this rough, a little thing like her was probably worse off.  
  
When his eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, he looked around. The rocky circle was empty. A sharp pain in his neck made him touch it. The faint indentations of tooth marks were the only sign of her left.  
  
With a curse, he pushed himself to his feet, staggered sideways into the burned-out fire barrel, and crashed to the ground alongside it. The landing was like getting shot again in the temple and he groaned.  
  
His girl, his wild woman, was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Pushing past his discomfort, he searched the immediate area for any sign of her. His first thought was that she’d been taken again while he slept, and guilt crashed against regret, which melded with the throbbing pounder behind his eyes. It was Star all over again.  
  
Until he saw the boot prints and the drag marks leading away from the safety of the hollow. Slaytan was parked right where he left it but the doors were wide open and junk was scattered about. It didn’t take him much to put it together.  
  
He’d been had.  
  
By the look of the mess left behind and the drag marks disappearing beyond the dunes, she’d taken everything of value and thrown it into the canvas tarp: tools, weapons, spare water, the actual shirt off his back and--  
  
His mask. Pogo groaned, slumping in the driver’s seat. She’d taken his mask. It almost seemed like a last word in regards to her opinion of his face. ‘ Not so bad. I’ve seen worse…’  
  
He smirked, which turned into a wince when another wave of pain-tinted nausea washed over him.  
  
She’d left him the dust cloth around his neck, though, which he now tugged up past his nose. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that she hadn’t taken everything . She’d left him Slaytan so he could get home, she left him his trousers and boots so he wouldn’t be naked, and she’d left him his life.  
  
Pogo burst out laughing, despite the way it jarred his brainpan with bolts of wobbly agony.  
  
She’d somehow avoided the same fate from drinking too much, he had no doubt. She’d fooled him good, made him think she was drinking when she was cold sober. She could have killed him. But she didn’t.  
  
She must have liked him after all.  
  
As Pogo pieced himself back together to make the drive of shame back to Gas Town, shirtless, maskless, and so queasy he could barely see straight, he couldn’t help but wonder where she’d gone. Somewhere smart, where no one would find her, maybe.  
  
Even him.  
  
More was the pity. As he drove, he absently touched the tooth marks on the sore meat of his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the horizon.   
  
He hadn’t seen the last of her, that was sure, and he’d have a few choice things to tell her when he did.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the anon that requested this, and thanks to FancyLadySnackCakes for putting up with my creative blocks and crises! Without her, so much of my writing would never get done. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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